Imbroglio
by Mynsii
Summary: Life is complicated enough when you're teetering on the verge of an apocalypse. Unbearably so when you start sleeping with the murderous alien prince who happens to be living in your house. Falling in love with said alien was a catastrophic mistake, even by Bulma's standards.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One:  
** **Ashes**

 **Imbroglio**

[noun]

An unwanted, extremely confused, complicated or embarrassing situation, full of trouble and problems.

 _{archaic}_ A confused heap.

The house was empty, or, at least, her parents weren't home. Vegeta was in the Gravity Room, as per usual, and none of the employees ventured into the family quarters unless it was absolutely urgent, so they had the place to themselves. They would remain undisturbed for the foreseeable future, and she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. A knot of unease was contracting ever tighter in Bulma's stomach, surging through her veins and prickling beneath the surface of her skin. It felt as though someone had pumped her full of gasoline and then carelessly tossed a match in her direction.

Yamcha stood against one of the kitchen counters, looking just as uncomfortable as she felt, shifting his body weight nervously from side to side. The very sight of him made Bulma feel a bit sick, and the overwhelming finality of what she had to do hit her with a ferocity that was hard to handle. It had been months, maybe even years in the making, and now it was coming to a head.

She had caught him at a bar a few days earlier with some young, ditzy blonde – big breasted and small brained – sprawling across his lap, cooing about how it was _so awesome_ to hang out with a _super cool baseball star._ He'd insisted that it was innocent, that absolutely nothing had happened between them, despite the fact he had told Bulma earlier that day that he wasn't feeling well after a training session gone wrong, would have an early night, and would call her in the morning. When Bulma had spotted him with a drink in hand, the aforementioned floozy, and several of his baseball buddies during what was supposed to be a night out with some of the Capsule Corp. employees, she'd lost it.

The drink in her hand was thrown, rather unceremoniously, over the scar faced warrior and his mystery companion, and Bulma retreated back to Capsule Corp. without a word.

She had been dutifully ignoring him for the past forty-eight hours, ignoring everyone, really, trying to gather her thoughts and process what had to happen next. When she finally found the courage to sift through the barrage of text messages and voicemails he'd sent her, mostly weak excuses and frantic apologies, she'd called him back and told Yamcha that they needed to talk face-to-face. And now, here he was, standing in her kitchen, looking as shit as Bulma felt, the bouquet of flowers he had pitifully brought as a peace offering crammed into the trashcan.

"Bulma, please say something," Yamcha said, timorously fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt. He could only hold her gaze for a couple of seconds at a time before forcing himself to look away, and the cowardice of the gesture only added to Bulma's anger. She tried to quell it, telling herself that she needed to be the bigger person, and that a temper tantrum would solve nothing, but the urge to rip him a new one was rising within her, gathering momentum with every passing second.

There were a thousand things on her mind, battling for dominance on the tip of her tongue. A slew of insults and accusations, daggered words designed to hurt him in unimaginable ways. But none of them came out. Bulma couldn't formulate the words and so she simply asked "Why?"

"I... I don't know why. I knew I shouldn't have lied to you, but I just... didn't think. I know I've fucked up, and I'm not asking you to forgive me right away. But just... please don't give up on us."

"You fucked her." It was a statement, not a question. Bulma forced him to meet her steely gaze,

Yamcha blushed, shaking his head violently. He reached out to touch her arm, his outstretched hand left dangling when she immediately recoiled away from his touch.

"Bulma, please."

" _Don't._ "

"Am I not good enough for you anymore, is that is?"

"No, of course you're good enough. _Too_ good."

"Then why?"

Yamcha's throat bobbed, opening his mouth to speak but saying nothing. He sighed, ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. "I just wanted to hang out with the guys. You know, have a normal night that didn't revolve around post -apocalyptic futures and murderous robots, and being under the same roof as a guy who literally _killed_ me. I just wanted to feel like everyone else for a few hours. That chick and her friends recognised me, and she wanted to hang out and..." He trailed off, finally opening his eyes again but refusing to meet Bulma's line of sight.

Bulma let out a bitter bark of a laugh, tucking a wayward strand of her hair behind her ear. "You don't think I'd like to have a normal life sometimes? Yeah, we've gone on amazing journeys, but I've also had to deal with shit no person should ever have to go through. It makes me want to scream when I see everyone else going about their day-to-day lives, completely oblivious to the chaos in this world. It fucking _sucks_ Yamcha, but this is the life we chose for ourselves so we have to suck it up. The difference between you and I is I don't throw myself at other men to make myself feel better."

The warrior growled, his hands curling into fists. "So, it's alright for you to go out spending a fortune on clothes for Vegeta, and I can't complain about another man _living_ with you, but I can't have any female friends or fans, right?"

"You don't want me to buy clothes for Vegeta anymore? Fine. The alternatives are he gets to wear your clothes, or he walks around naked. Either option is _fine_ by me, so I'll let you pick," Bulma snapped. "Besides, there's a big difference between letting someone live in the compound so we can keep an eye on him and stop him killing us all, and sleeping with someone else."

Yamcha scoffed, "Oh please, I've seen the way you look at him."

Bulma felt the heat rise from her neck, and turned her face away from Yamcha. Her physical attraction to Vegeta _had_ been growing, and while at first it had been a fun way to tease both Yamcha and the Saiyan prince, and she had delighted in their agitated and embarrassed reactions, it had quickly spiralled into something Bulma could not control. She found herself admiring the often half-naked Saiyan for just a few moments too long, or shifting her routine slightly so that she could catch a glimpse of him hot and sweaty and fresh from his work out. She even enjoyed their arguments, secretly relishing in the way they riled one another up when fighting about modifications for the Gravity Room, or Vegeta's flagrant disregard for his safety. It provided Bulma with a sense of purpose that she felt she had lost after the Boy From The Future's arrival. She could no longer tell herself that it was okay to innocently appreciate obvious physical beauty, especially as her thoughts grew less than innocent. Still, she had never followed Yamcha into (rumoured) infidelity. She had always been physically loyal to her lover despite his many indiscretions, and was proud of the fact that she had maintained a decade long relationship without cheating.

"So that's what this is about? You were punishing me because you can't handle being weaker than Vegeta?"

"I can handle him being stronger than me, he's a goddamn alien designed for fighting. I'm not enough of an egomaniac to pretend I could ever compete with him. It's the way you fawn over that rat-bastard like a love sick schoolgirl that just fucking _gets_ to me."

Yamcha's statement, and the sour way he spat the words out irked Bulma, and she had to draw in a deep breath to steady herself. "I fawn over him?"

"'Oh, let me patch you up, Vegeta', 'you need to rest, Vegeta'. 'You're going to get yourself killed, _Vegeta_.' Why do you even give a damn?"

"Because I'm a good fucking person and I don't want him to die," Bulma said, crossing her arms. Her cheeks were still warm, but embarrassment had given way to frustration, which was now evolving into unbridled anger. "Plus, if you haven't noticed, we _need_ him. You heard what that kid said. Everyone will die unless we can beat those androids. We need all the help we can get, and that includes Vegeta, otherwise we're going to be slaughtered like cattle. So don't try and deflect and make this about me. You're the one in the wrong, and me stitching him up and making sure he doesn't kill himself doesn't give you an excuse to screw some random floozy you met in a dive bar."

"I didn't say it did."

"Well, you're sure acting that way."

They stared at one another for a minute, saying nothing. Bulma's chest heaved, desperately trying to quell her anger before it erupted and became unmanageable, trying to push the tears scalding her eyes away before they fell. Yamcha was hunched in on himself defensively, his mouth clamped shut in a tight line, brows knitted together. She didn't want to speak first, didn't want to give him the satisfaction, give into his provocations and bite.

Yamcha was the first to break the silence, dropping his head and guiltily shuffling his feet. He looked like a naughty child who had just been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar, and Bulma almost felt sorry for him. _Almost._ "I...I've never ever meant to hurt you, you know that, right?"

"That doesn't make it better, Yamcha."

"We can fix this, right?"

Bulma swallowed the lump in her throat and clutched tightly at her forearms to hide the way her hands trembled. Her mind wandered to the last time all of her friends had been together in one place – the day The Boy From The Future had crash landed into their lives to impart his bleak warning. If she was being completely honest with herself, Goku's bizarre comment about having a baby had been the final nail in the coffin for their relationship. To her horror, Yamcha took that as his cue to propose to Bulma, setting up a romantic picnic complete with champagne on ice and a massive punnet of strawberries a month or so later. When he'd dropped down on one knee, and the realisation of what he was doing set in, she'd tried her best to let him down as gently as possible, citing that she wasn't quite ready to settle down. It was then that she realised they had no future, because the thought of dedicating the rest of her life to her childhood sweetheart filled her with a cold, inescapable fear. Yet she had still tried hard to make things work, to not abandon over a decade of shared experiences and melded hearts just because she'd grown bored, for lack of a better word, of their relationship.

Stumbling across him with that young slip of a girl, probably at least six or seven years her junior and blissfully naive to the world that Bulma inhabited, had been the straw that broke the camels back. She could no longer keep up with the charade, could no longer force herself to keep acting as though she and Yamcha were the same kids who had fallen in love all those years ago. He had burnt away the last vestiges of hope, gambled the shattered remains of their relationship for a cheap thrill with a girl whose name he probably didn't even know. He had humiliated in the most basic of ways, throwing months of effort on her part back in her face. She hated him for it. She hated herself for letting it come to this.

Her lungs constricted, and for a sickening moment Bulma was worried she might actually die there and then.

"No, I don't think we can."

Vegeta's muscles were screaming at him, begging him to stop.

He had all but mastered four hundred times gravity. Sure, it had nearly killed him initially, but with each passing moment his body acclimated to the intense pressure, evolving and adapting to cater to it. Yet still, nothing. He had expected to achieve Super Saiyan status by now, after all, a lowly third-class warrior had managed to ascend after training in only one hundred times Earths gravity, and that _kid,_ a fucking mystery prodigy _child_ , had managed to achieve the legend – Vegeta's _birthright_ – before him.

Vetega growled, firing at one of the drones, feeling nothing but frustration when it shut down and dropped to the floor with a tinny _clank_ instead of exploding. The clever little blue-haired bitch had made them hardier, as per his request, and he had to admire her for her ingenuity and willingness to help him with his gruelling training regime, despite the fact he had, not-so-long-ago, threatened to blow her miserable planet to smithereens.

But he craved the satisfaction of destruction, the thrill of entire planets falling under his might, and his inability to obliterate one of her small inventions only fuelled the inferno raging within him. His shattered pride needed to see the results of a lifetime of pushing his body to its limits and beyond, yet now he couldn't even fell a simple ball of nuts and bolts.

" _FUUCK!"_

Vegeta felt his knees buckle without his consent, his aching body finally telling him that enough was enough, refusing to co-operate any further, at least for today. He felt no closer to achieving the Legend, but he had exhausted his energy supply. Bitterly, he wondered how Kakarot did it. How Kakarot had pushed beyond the limits of a lowly Saiyan born with a power level so low he'd been immediately shipped off planet. How Kakarot had battled with Frieza for so long without burning himself and collapsing like a dying star.

Most of all he wondered _why_. Why Kakarot and not him?

Why had an imbecile who had lived his life oblivious to the truth of his own species been the one to ascend to Legendary status? Why had he, a stranger to the intergalactic power play that had wrought havoc across the universe, been the one to avenge the genocide of their people? Why had Kakarot been the one to attain the necessary skills required to destroy Frieza while Vegeta, trapped for two decades as a glorified slave to the disgusting bastard, could only lie back and die like a dog?

And why had that lavender haired boy beaten him to it a second time?

He had spend months rolling these questions over and over in his mind, torturing himself with his own shortcomings. With a frustrated growl Vegeta dragged himself up off the floor, groping for the control panel and turning off the gravity. He felt his muscles relax instinctively, his Saiyan genealogy taking advantage of small mercies and using these blessed moments of release to begin stitching together torn sinews and splintered bones.

He exited the chamber, the sudden rush of the early evening air engulfing him, and he closed his eyes for a moment, simply enjoying the nothingness. The cool breeze felt refreshing against his abused skin, moist with the promise of rain, and he relished in it for a few sweet seconds. But then his stomach curled in on itself, gurgling noisily, and with a huff he paced towards the house so he could find some way to appease his massive appetite.

He could sense Bulma, her laughably miniscule ki throbbing in the kitchen. Though it was tiny, barely detectable at first, he had gone out of his way to hone his senses so that he could always find her – and her parents – no matter where they were in the compound. It made locating them when he needed a new battle suit, or modifications to the Gravity Room, easier. But it also meant he could avoid them whenever the desire to do so struck. Which was almost all the time.

He considered temporarily abandoning his quest for food, trying to decide whether it would be worth putting up with his hunger a little longer and coming back in her absence. He had little patience for the oft-vulgar woman and her nugatory attempts at conversation. Her lewd mouth and precocious nature riled him in a way he'd never before experienced, testing his already lacking forbearance beyond its limits. The fact Yamcha habitually clung to her like a shadow did little to endear her to him, the scarred fighters mere presence a personal affront to Vegeta, a tumbling mess of weak-willed snivelling and under-confidence in combat. Nonetheless, he had grown accustomed to Bulma's presence, and her furious demands that he let her tend to the worst of his wounds. They offered him brief moments of respite, allowing him to drift out of his own head while she played nurse and chastised him for damaging his body. He would close his eyes and just float as her tiny fingers fluttered over scars and scabs. Now and again he'd peak at her, finding amusement in the way her little tongue darted out of her mouth in concentration, or admiring the way her skin looked, almost Saiyan-like, stained with his blood. It reminded him of his long-destroyed home. Truth be told, he sometimes enjoyed the back-and-forth, their heated arguments supplying him with just enough social interaction to keep him from completely losing his mind. Without Nappa and Raditz, he was severely lacking in that department, and while he had never been one for forging friendships or relying on the other people, he could only remain trapped within his mind for so long before it became unbearable.

And she was by herself, unmoving and undisturbed, so it wouldn't be _too_ awful to cross her path in his quest for food.

He entered the kitchen, his stomach growling and betraying his needs, and his mouth unconsciously filled with saliva. Vegeta had anticipated a snippy comment about him trailing mud and blood along the tiled floor, but to his surprise she said nothing, not even acknowledging his presence. He opened him mouth to say something shitty and inflammatory, but stopped when he spotted her.

Bulma was sat at the little breakfast table, her head down in her arms, face hidden beneath a fan of teal curls. Vegeta could tell she was crying, not just by the muffled sobs coming from her trembling body, but because of the wafting scent of hot, salty tears coming from her direction. He suspected she hadn't noticed him yet, perhaps too lost in her own grief to have, or simply lacking the observational skills to sense him. Humans were incredibly flawed that way. Maybe she did know he was there, but was ashamed of her vulnerability. He told himself he didn't care, that her sadness meant nothing to him and the dull ache in his chest was entirely coincidental.

He strode over to the fridge, skin prickling, and began to root through its contents for a snack. He heard her shift slightly, tensing at the sound but carried on regardless. When he turned back around Bulma's head was lifted and she was staring at him. Her pale face was red and swollen, and her beautiful blue eyes, wet and glossy, told the story of a burnt out galaxy. Dimming and lovely and little more than the shattered remains of something that was once magnificent.

The pithy remarks he would usually bark her way dried up in his throat, and his adams apple bobbed almost painfully. He had never seen Bulma look so vulnerable. He had seen her scream and shout (both at him and her weakling of a mate) and quake, but never he'd never seen such a dejected creature as the one currently sat in front of him. Looking at her made him feel lonely, reminding him briefly of his childhood, and those first isolated nights he spent staring into the vast abyss of space after learning of the genocide of his species. He internally cursed her for evoking such a pathetic emotion, damned himself still holding on to ill-begotten memories that he had spent years assuaging with every planet he purged.

He wanted to leave her to wallow in her misery, knowing he would have done so with ease only a few years ago. But he couldn't compel his body to move, his dark eyes locked on her blue ones, so he simply waited.

She hadn't cried until after Yamcha had left.

He had cried, pleaded with Bulma to forgive him, to give him another chance and he would never let her down again. It had splintered her heart, the shards slicing through flesh and staining her insides, but she held back her emotions as best she could. Breaking would have shattered her resolve and prolonged the painfully inevitable. Not to mention, she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of her heartache.

If she was being honest with herself, the whole incident at the bar had hurt Bulma's pride more than it had hurt her heart. Things hadn't sat well between the pair of them for a while, and she had tried to put that down to getting older and growing up, because no relationship, even a relationship seeped in insane adventures and mystical beings, could stay childlike and fun forever. At some point they had to mature, and work at themselves as individuals and as a couple, right? The passion fizzled away completely, and it felt as though they'd only remained together out of habit, and because they were scared of the change that would inevitably be thrust upon them in the coming years. Bulma and Yamcha both deserved more than the last vestiges of something wonderful, but worn out, so it had been time to say goodbye.

But she loved him, albeit with the same platonic love she felt for Goku and Krillin, and a life without Yamcha in it felt unbearably empty. There was a distinct possibility that she had lost Yamcha for good, and her rejection would send him spiralling beyond her reach forever. The very thought of never seeing him again, never sharing her life with him again, opened up an aching wound in Bulma's chest, and she felt a new flurry of tears well to the surface.

She didn't want to feel this way, torn between the desperate need to salvage the broken fragments of their bond, and the resentment that churned within her as a consequence of his cheating.

Most of all she felt incredibly lost and lonely, feeling the absence of her friends all the more as she sat sobbing, alone, in her kitchen.

Excluding the Saiyan prince skulking around Capsule Corp., Krillin and Yamcha were the only members of the group who maintained regular contact with her. Goku, Gohan and Piccolo had, in their usual way, largely abandoned the outside world in order to train harder and avoid distractions. Chi Chi had been very vocal with her disgust, having only had her husband back for a few hours before he snatched their young son away from her for days or weeks at a time, and Bulma was hesitant to bother the younger woman with her own comparatively small problems when she had so much piling up on her already over-flowing plate. Tien and Chiaotzu had, of course, disappeared into the wilderness or the mountains, or wherever it was they went to train. She had her doubts that she would she them again before the androids arrived. Truth be told, she had her doubts that she would see _any_ of them again before the androids arrived.

They were a confraternity of misfits; sharing a bond that was unbreakable, and built on foundations of magic and heroism. But they gathered like Dragon Balls, only truly reuniting to rectify a wrong and restore the Earth from chaos. Then, when they'd fulfilled their wish, they scattered across the globe, their ties to one another turning to stone again for another year until it was time to wake the dragon.

And Bulma... Bulma was left abandoned yet again. Left increasingly on the sidelines as each year passed, unable to keep up physically. Unable to adapt to a normal life after a decade of adventuring. Alone in a superficial, unsuspecting world that could never understand her or the secret society she inhabited, leaving her unfulfilled and forlorn.

The creak of the fridge door startled her, and her head snapped up to source the offender. Vegeta was rummaging through the groceries with one hand, the other gripping tightly on the fridge door, his naked back turned to her. He had a few new scratches and bruises littered across his skin, and the bandages on his knuckles, the one Bulma had wrapped herself a few days earlier, were damp and bloody. But it was all superficial, and they were minor considering the injuries she had tended in the past.

She wondered how long he had been there, feeling faintly embarrassed to be caught in such a state, but too worn out to really care. The regarded each other for a moment, Bulma flinching when something resembling _pity_ flashed across his face for a nano-second. She could deal with his spite, and his fractious nature, but his pity wounded her pride almost as much as Yamcha's betrayal.

"Woman, are you going to keep staring at me like that?" He growled, plucking an apple, a bunch of bananas and a punnet of grapes from fridge. He dumped the fruit on the table opposite Bulma, pulling out the chair and collapsing into it. It was rare for him to willingly spend time with anyone, usually skulking off whenever possible and seeking out Bulma or her father only when he needed help with something in order to advance his training. He had, surprisingly frequently, allowed Bulma to patch up any wounds he had, seemingly trusting her more since the Gravity Room explosion to the point he no longer complained when she insisted she clean him up and check him over. Sometimes she could even get him to engage in conversation, and though it was mostly her doing the talking, Vegeta would occasionally reply and add a dry remark or two of his own. 

But even then her company served a purpose, and she couldn't remember the last time he had ever willingly shared her company. If ever.

Bulma watched him for a moment as he peeled and devoured two of the bananas in about thirty seconds flat. He picked up the apple next, glancing at her for a brief moment before returning his attention to his pile of snacks. She couldn't tell if he knew she was crying, and self-consciously wiped at her face with the back of her hands. She didn't know why she said what she did next, just blurting the words out without really thinking.

"I want you to kill Yamcha."

"Okay," Vegeta said simply, taking a bite out of his apple.

Bulma paled. "Wait, just like that?"

"Of course. It's been far too long since I was able to kill someone, and it's the least I can do, given your hospitality." Vegeta's lips quirked, and he chuckled quietly to himself. He finished the apple with his second bite, tossing the core to the side to shove a fistful of grapes into his mouth.

His eyes burned with something Bulma had never seen in him before, and it took a moment for her to understand exactly what was going on. "You're... you're joking, aren't you?"

Vegeta's smirk widened, and for a moment it looked as though he might break out in a genuine, honest-to-God smile. "It's not that I wouldn't relish in making your boyfriend suffer, but I can't see your band of merry men taking it well. While it would be fun to do the android's job for them, I'd rather focus on destroying them and besting Kakarot, so I can reclaim my title as the strongest fighter in the universe."

Despite living with him for nearly a year – more, if you included his brief spell on Earth between their arrival home on Namek and the ominous arrival of the mysterious Boy From The Future – Vegeta still remained very much an enigma. One, to her dismay, Bulma couldn't seem to crack. Still, he was attempting some sort of humour, and he didn't seem to be making fun of her, but rather trying to make her laugh.

"Geez, don't joke about things like that! You had me worried there for a second."

"You're the one making the requests, woman." Vegeta said, raising a single brow. He finished chewing another one of the bananas, eyeing her carefully when he began speaking again. "I take it you and your lover have had a spat of sorts?"

"Why do you care?"

"I don't."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, and Bulma began chewing on a hangnail to release some of the bristling tension. The skin tore, drawing a little blood, and she hissed to herself. Vegeta's nostrils flared, his mouth curling down at the sides. He sighed, crossing his arms across his chest, muttering something to himself about _pathetic human emotions_ before asking her a single, simple question. "What happened?"

Bulma eyed Vegeta suspiciously, mimicking him by crossing her own arms and looking away. "Why are you even bothering?"

"Because your miserable state of self-pity is pissing me off, and you humans seem to relish in spilling every detail of your lives to one another."

She drew in a ragged breath, crushing down the fresh set of tears boiling within her, the humiliation of Yamcha's betrayal fresh in her blood, coupled with the indignity of being scrutinised and interrogated by a man with the social skills of a rock. A very attractive rock, but a rock nonetheless. A rock who had, on occasion, massacred entire planets with his bare hands, and had very nearly obliterated her own planet in an attempt to quench his thirst for power.

Something about her, vulnerable and forlorn, intrigued him. It drove his focus away from his failings, and Vegeta felt a flicker of superiority alight within him. He had been indebted to Bulma and her family from the moment he'd arrived back on Earth. He could kill them, easily, but he'd chosen not to, and in doing so he'd become reliant on her for the technology needed to better himself.

"He cheated on me. I found him with some chick in a bar and...and he cheated on me."

Her confession startled him, and he had to mull over the words in order for them to make sense. As far as Vegeta could tell, Bulma was perhaps the closest thing to true royalty this miserable planet had to offer. Her inventions were so deeply imbedded into the day-to-day lives of humans that if she were to suddenly recall each and every product society would likely crumble before her. Her cunning little brain had amassed her an incomparable wealth, and she was pleasant on the eyes. _Very_ pleasant. Yet that moron, a man not even fit to lick Vegeta's boots, had traded her for a cheap liaison with another woman.

Humans never failed to amazing him with their unrelenting stupidity.

"Well, he is inferior to you in every way except for battle, and even then he only beats you by a thin margain. Perhaps he was trying to comfort himself with his own lowly standards to compensate."

Bulma smiled, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Vegeta suddenly felt uncomfortable. "Careful, Vegeta. That almost sounds like a compliment."

"Tch, don't be stupid. I'm just making an observation on status. I don't understand why you entertain him in the first place. He's an annoying little fly."

"Maybe to you," Bulma said, her face beginning to fall. "But not to me. To me he was my prince charming for so many years. My best friend. So strong and brave. Things have been... wrong for a while, but... this isn't how I wanted things to end."

Vegeta rolled his eyes, his knuckles whitening. "That man is no prince."

"Sorry, did I offend the _Prince of all Saiyans_ with my insolence?" She was challenging him, trying to bait him into an argument. She was succeeding.

"Woman, I am the heir to the throne of the mightiest warrior race to have ever existed. To have a man such as _Yamcha_ be compared to me so freely is practically blasphemy."

"Actually, I never compared the two of you," Bulma's eyes were glittering now, taking sadistic pleasure in Vegeta's reaction. The little bitch enjoyed getting under his skin, and aggravating him. He hated her for it, but this was better than her pathetic snivelling. "I just said he was _my_ prince."

"Tch."

An awkward silence settled between them once more, and Vegeta picked at the remnants of his snack. He was still hungry, but he had been hoping to temporarily satiate his appetite just enough to resume his training. But his body was refusing to co-operate, sore and exhausted, and he'd allowed himself to get too comfortable in the Earth woman's company. He couldn't muster the strength needed to get back out there, and he quietly decided he would push himself twice as hard tomorrow as punishment. He hadn't noticed the way Bulma's teeth began to work her bottom lip as they lapsed into wordlessness, nor had he picked up on her fluctuating mood. He only picked up on the change when he heard her sniff, and a single teardrop hit the kitchen table-top with a soft _splat._

"I hate him." Bulma whispered, her voice hoarse.

"No you don't."

"What the hell do you know?"

Vegeta exhaled, uncrossing his arms and relaxing his stance a little. "I know hate, and you don't hate him."

She looked up at him, her eyes swimming, her bottom lip trembling. He almost wanted to kill her just to end her suffering. "I don't really want Yamcha dead."

"I know." He looked at he and wanted to say something more. Instead he just grunted.

A faint smile fluttered across Bulma's lips, her fingers playing with a wayward strand of her soft blue hair. "You know what, Vegeta? You're not such a bad guy. I mean, you're still an asshole. But you can be a likeable asshole when you want to be."

"Shut up," Vegeta fought hard to try and quell the prickling heat beneath his cheeks, snapping his head to one side as Bulma rose to her feet. "Woman, I need some more armour."

"Sure thing," Bulma said. And then she was at his side, bending her face close to his and pressing a lip against one of his flaming cheeks. Vegeta tried to form a coherent sentence, tried to bite out a scathing jibe, but he could only muster an undignified splutter. He would torture her, destroy everything and everyone she ever loved for such insubordination.

Then, just as quickly as she'd arrived, she was gone. Walking towards the door, waving her hand hand as she went. egeta tried to form a coherent sentence, tried to bite out a scathing jibe, but he could only muster an undignified splutter.

"Thank you, _Prince_ Vegeta."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:  
Blue **

The days bled into one another, and Vegeta still found himself locked in an angry rut. The power within him was building, reaching extraordinary new heights that he hadn't known he was capable of. He was strong enough to kill Frieza now, surpassing his one goal in life as if it was nothing. He could feel the potential deep within him, gurgling like a volcano getting ready to erupt. Yet, it still wasn't enough. He hadn't been able to tap into that fire, hadn't found a way of harnessing it to achieve the Legend that he had been promised to him at birth. Which meant he wouldn't be able to surpass that bastard clown Kakarot, and he wouldn't be able to put up a decent fight against the androids. Meaning everyone was going to die, and not by his hand, and he'd failed.

He growled as his bones popped, threatening to dislocated, or simply snap clean in two, with every push-up he completed.

Vegeta felt useless, and it was disarming. He wasn't used to feeling like he owed anyone anything, but all he had to offer the Earthlings that housed him was his body. His strength. And no matter how hard he trained, he couldn't even give them _that._

Providing them monetary support so that he didn't feel quite so... pathetic should have been easy, but of course, nothing in his life was a simple as it should be. Despite being Frieza's glorified slave, he had been paid for his services generously, and amassed a fortune perhaps rivalling Bulma's own. Not that he'd had much use for it, mind you. Raditz and Nappa usually blew most of their comparatively meagre salaries in brothels and bars whenever they had some free time. Vegeta, on the other hand, drank very little, stayed well away from any establishment that required you to pay for sex, and only occasionally splashed out on meals that were more favourable than the scattered limbs of the race he'd just annihilated, and a comfortable bed for the night. So his wealth had continued to stack, perhaps even without Frieza's knowledge, built up as a means of eventually surpassing the bastard that stole away his race and his life. But that had been in galactic credits, a currency Earth had never even heard of before, much less adopted for its own use. Now the black card sat uselessly on his bedside table. The most expensive paperweight in the galaxy.

He had contemplated snatching it and abandoning Earth for good, hitting it with a Galick Beam, and watching it fall apart like Arlia. Then he'd use his enormous wealth, as well as his enormous strength, to take over the galaxy and rule in Frieza's place. He was a prince, after all, and a Saiyan prince at that. Sitting atop of a throne of fear and destruction would only restore balance and order to cataclysmic fuck up that was his life. No androids. No infuriating earthlings. No Kakarot.

But...

It not only felt like a cowardly solution to a looming problem, but the idea no longer appealed to him. Though he'd enjoyed planet purging and slaughtering entire species, they were often merely moments of respite. An escapism from Frieza's tyranny. Before Kakarot had turned his world upside down and inside out, Vegeta's entire existence had been dedicated to usurping the galactic war-lord. He'd planned to take the title for himself out of spite, as a finally fuck you to the monster that had ruined him in every way a person could be ruined. But without Frieza to fuck over, and without the heavy burden his father placed on young shoulders, the desire to rule completely fizzled away. Enslaving others wouldn't wash away the scars of his own subjugation. Extirpating planets wouldn't bring back Planet Vegeta. And becoming the self-proclaimed King of the Galaxy wouldn't requite the blood right that was lost the moment his father drew his final breath.

Though he'd never admit it aloud, often refusing to admit it even to himself, Vegeta had a pretty good thing going on Earth. Even if it was just temporary.

The blue-haired Earth woman and her family had been more than accommodating. Providing him with a large room in a mostly private wing of the house (the wench herself had a room in the vicinity, but far enough away to make avoiding her, and the disgusting noises she and her former mate made during their late night rendezvous, easy enough if he put in the effort), an endless supply of surprisingly delicious food, clean clothes, as well as the brand new Gravity Room that _she_ had built from scratch for him. Speaking of, if you could get through the self-entitled, rich-bitch attitude and suggestive mouth, she wasn't such bad company. Bulma definitely had her uses, giddily accepting his demands for faster, stronger drones, or improved armour as a way of challenging herself. It almost reminded Vegeta of the near-suicidal urgency in which he'd accepted mission after mission as a means of bettering himself, honing his senses and increasing his power-level. He had to respect her for that. Her determination to not just win, but endlessly improve upon herself, and her fiery temper would have made for an excellent Saiyan, and it was a shame that this potential would go to waste with her complete lack of any physical power. Still, Bulma provided Vegeta with a verbal sparring partner that helped ease him through his agitation at not being able to ascend, and helped quell the frustrated sense of isolation perpetually nipping at his heels.

Not to mention, she was easy on the eyes. Quite pleasant, actually. Pale and soft, the unusual aquamarine of her hair, coupled with the bright blue of her eyes, giving her an almost ethereal complexion. She was a much more attractive specimen than most of the females Vegeta had dealt with in the past. That being said, Vegeta's experience of females was extremely limited, and his experience of women who somewhat resembled Saiyans – in that they had skin, two arms, two legs, and hands that didn't resemble claws or hooves – was even more so. Bulma was definitely aware of her own beauty, frustratingly so, prancing around in tight, revealing outfits, littering most conversations with dirty innuendos and lewd comments. She'd even had the gall to _kiss_ him.

He flinched at the memory, his cheek suddenly hot where her plump little lips had brushed up against his skin. His opinion of her abruptly changed, darkening.

That _bitch_ and her fucking sneak attacks.

He'd shown her mercy, when she was hunched over and sobbing, and she'd repaid the favour with an attack designed to reduce his ego to rubble. He _hated_ her for it. The only consolation was the bitch seemed utterly miserable, moping around the compound lacking all purpose, huffing quietly and consoling herself with unhealthy amounts of sweets, cakes and alcohol. Good. Fuck her. Vegeta was _glad_ she was suffering.

He continued with his pushed ups, his breathing laboured thanks to the stifling gravity. Everything hurt, and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to draw in a breath deep enough to satisfy his starving lungs.

Fuck her. Fuck Kakarot. And fuck those fucking androids.

Bulma sat on the floor of her lab, empty blueprints spread out across the floor, the trash can overflowing with a mountain of discarded plans and ideas. She'd been attempting to design a new armour for her houseguest, busying herself with the request. The chest plates had been the easy part, and she'd managed to adapt them so that they were light and flexible, but twice as strong. It was the under-armour that was proving to be the issue. Still as skin tight, as per his demands (and Bulma was beginning to wonder whether he had a fetish), but with increased durability and protective properties. She'd been tossing around ideas, toying with different materials, different structural patterns, but she just couldn't get it to do what she wanted. In truth, she was finding it hard to concentrate. It had been fifteen days since she'd last spoken to Yamcha. The longest they'd gone without speaking in _years._ At least, the longest they'd gone without death or space travel keeping them apart.

She'd missed him less when he was dead. At least then she'd known she'd get him back somehow, even if it meant traversing across galaxies and fighting an alien war-lord. She'd always been so certain that they'd succeed in their quest, because even when faced with the very worst life had to offer, they'd _always_ succeeded and come through in the end. It was just part of who they were, part of the brilliance of her friends, and it had kept her sane throughout the chaos.

She checked her cell for messages. Nothing. She checked her answerphone for third time that morning. Nada. Getting desperate, she checked her emails, knowing full well Yamcha _never_ wrote emails. Probably didn't even have an email address. Zilch. Bulma groaned, hugging her knees to her chest and suppressing a sob. Deciding enough was enough, and having a pretty good idea where her boyfriend – now _ex-_ boyfriend – may be hiding, Bulma pulled her phone out of her pocket.

She keyed in the number, holding her breath until it picked up on the fourth ring, "Krillin?

"Oh, uh, hey …Bulma. Long time no speak," Krillin sounded nervous, and she could hear the muffled voice of someone who suspiciously sounded like Yamcha in the background.

"Yeah, it's been a while," Bulma said, swallowing the lump in her throat along with her pride, adding: "Is Yamcha there?"

Krillin spluttered, and for a moment Bulma felt guilty. She knew all too well that her friend was ill-equipped to deal with any sort of potentially awkward or uncomfortable situations, and yet she'd gone out of her way to involve him in her relationship drama. "Hey, listen Bulma, I know things are awkward between you guys right now, but we kinda have more important things to be focusing on, don't ya think?"

"He's there, isn't he?"

"He is... he came to Kame House to train for a while. But I... uh, I don't think he wants to talk to you right now," Krillin said. After a moment, he sighed and added, "for what it's worth, I'm really sorry."

Her temper flared within her. Yamcha had been the one to cheat on her, and yet _she_ was the one grovelling. Rapidly losing patience, and not accustomed to being told _no_ , Bulma grit her teeth. "Tell him to come to the phone right now. If he doesn't, I'll send Vegeta over, and I've given him permission to do _whatever_ he want to you guys."

"...hang on."

There was a scuffle, and Bulma could hear the back-and-forth, hushed, frustrated tones and a healthy sprinkling of cursing. _'Come on, man. She's fuckin' bluffing. Do you really think_ _ **Vegeta**_ _would do anything she asked him to?' 'Probably not. But I also don't think he'd pass up an opportunity to kill one of us. Besides, he, uh, might still hold a grudge about Namek.' 'Maybe we could take him?' 'You're kidding, right?' 'Hey, fuck you, man. What's that supposed to mean?' 'It means I'd rather_ _ **not**_ _be_ _short, dark and grumpy's latest victim just because you don't want to have The Talk with your ex-girlfriend.' '...Fucksake. FINE.'_ There was another scuffle, the phone being passed between hands,

"Bulma," It was Yamcha's voice, uncharacteristically sullen. "What do you want."

"You've been ignoring me ever since..."

"Yeah, no shit. What. Do. You. Want?"

Bulma swallowed, unnerved by Yamcha's hostility. She should have expected as much. Bulma had broken his heart when she'd finished with him for good, even if he'd been somewhat responsible. "To talk."

"You realise I'm trying train for the androids, right? But whatever, I'm listening. Talk."

Bulma froze, realising only then that she didn't actually know what she wanted to say. Her goal had simply been to grab his attention, to kill the lonely feeling seeping through her veins and fill the void in her chest. She felt as though she might throw up, too many ideas and words and notions swarming around in her mind. Instead, she simply said "I miss you."

"Don't...don't do that. It's not fair."

"Refusing to talk to me for weeks isn't fair either, but such is life."

An uncomfortable silence fell between the two of them once more, and Bulma fidgeted with one of the pencils she had been using to draw up her plans. She could almost _hear_ Yamcha scratching the back of his head, shuffling from foot to foot. She wanted him to say something, _anything,_ even if he was just going to berate and insult her. She could handle that, insults rolled off her back easily enough.

"Look, Bulma you can't just have your cake and eat it too. You don't want me, that's fine. I know I messed up, and I'm sorry. You have to make up your mind, if you want me, that's great. But if you don't, it's really fuckin' cruel of you to string me along like this."

Somehow, despite her overall lack of strength, Bulma snapped the pencil she was holding. She looked at it numbly, her heartbeat quickening. "Yamcha, you know I don't want to get back together. I love you. I love you _so_ much. But I'm not _in_ love with you anymore. It wouldn't be fair on either of us to stay like this... It's... it's why it's easy enough to forgive you for your... _indiscretion_."

"Is there someone else?"

Bulma froze, and despite herself her eyes flicked to monitor displaying the currently empty Gravity Room. Images of Vegeta, his muscles rippling, skin shining, flashed across her mind. Shovelling meals into his ravenous mouth, occasionally grunting his 'thanks'. His uncharacteristic, almost _kind_ smile when he'd walked in on her crying in the kitchen. A blush inadvertently crept across her skin. "No, I swear I haven't _touched_ another man." Neatly avoiding the question.

"Oh, okay. That's ...good. I guess."

"Yeah."

God, this was so awkward. Bulma wanted the ground to swallow her up, wishing she'd never bothered to track Yamcha down in the first place. Was he even worth it? That frustratingly handsome and sweet bastard wasn't anything special, right? It wasn't like he'd been the number one person in her life for over a decade. He was just... Yamcha. At least, that's what she tried to tell herself.

"Look, B, I've really got to go," Yamcha said finally. "Krillin wasn't lying when he said I came here to train. The gap between us and the Saiyans is just getting bigger all the time, and I'd like to at least protect myself so I don't die." He laughed darkly. "Or, at least I don't die so easily."

"Oh, yeah. That's fine."

"So... just give me some time, okay? And don't send Vegeta to kill us. I'd rather not die by his hands. Again."

"Okay."

And then he hung up on her, and Bulma was left alone with her thoughts again. Time, yeah, sure. That was more easily said than done. They didn't _have_ time. If things didn't work out in their favour, if The Boy From The Future was right and they were killed, then time was a commodity they were rapidly running out of. Fuck Yamcha. Fuck his spiky hair and charming smile. Fuck him right in the ass. Vegeta too. For good measure, fuck Goku and all other others. She was fed up with muscled boneheads, with big pecs and bad attitudes. She was fed up with being tossed on the sidelines now she was no longer needed by them. She was fed up of feeling lonely and scared with no-one to comfort her or tell her it was all going to be okay.

Pulling her knees up to her chest again, she hugged herself tightly in an attempt at comfort. She felt as though her grip on her life had slipped substantially, and she was now merely a spectator to the events that were happening to her without her consent. She used to feel important. Like she had some modicum of control over the world around her. She used to be front and centre with the others, even if she had little to offer in way of physical strength or ability. But her role was slowly being tugged away from her, and she'd even been abandoned for long stretches of time while on Namek. Now she wasn't needed, not by anyone, and she'd isolated herself even further.

With a shuddering sob, Bulma pressed her face against her knees and tried to shut out the world around her.

Bulma must have dozed off, waking with a start as a trill ringing echoed through her lab. Drowsily she stretched up and clicked the 'accept' button, rubbing her eyes as she tried to re-orientate herself.

Vegeta's angry face flashed up on the screen, his onyx eyes absolutely blazing with unchecked fury.

He'd been grumpier than usual, as if being so nice to her (or, as nice as _he_ possibly could be) had sapped him of the finally vestiges of kindness he had left within him. Not that that well had ran particularly deep anyway, but the fact that he hadn't snapped her neck was yet (despite his many half-hearted threats) was a sign that he wasn't quite the bastard he had initially been when he'd landed on Earth.

"Woman, your fucking Gravity Room is broken. _Again_."

Bulma didn't have time for the Prince of all Assholes, not today. She had been watching him via one of the monitors, distracting herself (or, at least attempting to distract herself and failing miserably) by making sure he was still alive. And, if she was being honest with herself, admiring the view of a very sweaty, shirtless Saiyan. But Vegeta had, as usual, pushed his body and the technology to the limit, and Bulma, having decided enough was enough, had manually overwritten the gravity when he'd left for a food run. Her already frayed patience was wearing thinner and thinner by the second, and she didn't have enough of it left to deal with him or his self-destructive bullshit. "And what do you want me to do about it?"

"Well, if you want to fucking _live_ and not be slaughtered by the androids that will be here within the next few years, I suggest you fix it. Alternatively, I can save the machines a trip, and kill you all myself because I can't fucking train any other way."

Bulma rolled her eyes, tired of his melodrama, too invested in her own. "Relax, jackass. I remotely overrode the system because you were damn near killing yourself. I'll turn it back on tomorrow."

"You _bitch._ You'll turn it back on _now,_ " Vegeta threatened, his expression darkening.

"No. You're pushing yourself too hard. You're going to end up getting seriously hurt. Or worse."

He tensed, and Bulma could see the veins popping on his forehead and neck. "Don't test me," Vegeta growled. "I've killed stronger men for far less."

"I know you won't hurt me," Bulma said defiantly, hands on hips.

Vegeta laughed, his eyes narrowing, the vein on his forehead still throbbing dangerously. "Woman, I spent a year of my life travelling to this God forsaken planet with the sole intention of stealing your Dragon Balls and then obliterating every last one of you."

"So do it now," Bulma dared. "You could probably destroy this planet in a heartbeat if you wanted to, and you've got the element of surprise on your side this time. The others wouldn't know what hit 'em, and by the time they do work it out it'll be too late for them to do anything about it."

"Are you _mocking_ me?"

"No, just pointing out the obvious."

"The obvious being?"

"You won't ever destroy the Earth because you don't want to. You're not the same person as back then, and I think you secretly _like_ it here."

Vegeta spluttered, comically so, and Bulma had to dash a hand to her face to stifle the giggle that lurched up and out of her. For a master tactician and mass-murderer, Vegeta was far too easily flustered. He was incredibly prudish, his rich, dark skin burning crimson whenever Bulma said or did anything mildly suggestive. Bulma had put that down to Saiyan biology, though. After all, Goku had been _painfully_ oblivious to anything sexual, so much so that she often found it hard to believe he was capable of creating a child. Saiyans just didn't seem biologically wired to desire or understand sex, so it wasn't entirely surprising that Vegeta didn't know how to react around the subject. Though it did provide Bulma with endless opportunities to amuse herself. But, more than that, any time Bulma switched the conversation to anything remotely resembling pleasantries, or any potential affection he might hold for her or her planet, he'd clam up and shut down.

When he'd regained some sort of composure, scowling like a petulant schoolboy, he jabbed a finger at the monitor. "Don't mistake my desire to get stronger and defeat Kakarot for attachment to this miserable rock. Test me any further and I'll soon forget about my pursuit and turn you into dust instead"

"As I said, do it then. Kill me. As soon as Goku and the others find out, they'll come and kill you. We do have a _Super_ Saiyan on our side, after all. And after they're done killing you...then they'll wish me back with the Dragon Balls rendering this entire thing completely inconsequential."

"I'm going to kill you slowly," Vegeta growled. "I'm going to kill you, and then I'm going to murder all of your friends one by one."

"What is your problem?"

" _You_. You're my problem. Your incessant babbling, your overbearing need to try and mother me by tending to my wounds. Your audacity to _kiss_ me, then turn off the power during the middle of my training."

This time, she couldn't restrain herself Bulma collapsed into laughter, "So that's why you've been sulking. You're pissed because I kissed your _cheek_. Honestly, Vegeta, how old are you?"

He huffed, and even through the monitor Bulma could make out the rush of blood to his face. "Now I know why that weakling chose to satisfy himself with another woman. I'd probably do the same if I were in his position."

His words slapped Bulma hard across the face, and she winced in spite of herself. Her bottom lip trembled, just slightly, and pang of what appeared to be guilt momentarily flickered across Vegeta's face. But it was gone before she could decipher it, along with the last remnants of her patience. Her fingers travelled robotically to the switch that powered the Gravity Room and flicked it.

"Fine, whatever. Everything's back online. Enjoy your training, jackass. Don't expect me to do anything about it when you die."

He opened his mouth the reply, but Bulma killed the video feed before any words left his lips.

The air was hot. Suffocatingly so. It weighed down on Vegeta, searing and wet in his lungs. It made trying to draw in a substantial breath near impossible.

His shorts were soaked to his skin, both with his sweat and blood, and his normally gravity defiant hair was beginning to sag under the increased pressure. One of the drones zipped past him, the shot it fired at him barely missing his right thigh. Vegeta roared, firing a weak ki blast at it to disarm it. He wanted to destroy it completely, but fuck if he was going to go crawling back to _her_ again so she could fix it.

Vegeta couldn't get Bulma out of her head. Her arrogant sneer as she dared him to kill her, her tinkling laugh as she openly mocked him. He was training again to spite her. Of course, he was chasing Super Saiyan status too, but the very fact that she had told him to stop – that she had attempted to force him to stop – had been enough to convince him to push his body twice as hard. He was done with being told what to do. He'd been forced to bow to Frieza for over twenty years, and enough was enough. He refused to be anyone's little lapdog ever again.

He kicked at another drone, catching it when it came hurtling towards his chest and swiftly disarming it.

Who the hell did she think she was? Did she know who he was? He was a _prince._ He demanded respected just by virtue of being alive. Not only had she been toying with him for _months_ now. Parading around in little more than her underwear, and throwing herself at him with a cackle whenever he sneered in disgust. She'd been bossing him around for months too, dictating his workout schedule, demanding that he shower, or change into clean clothes, or rest his aching body. And now she was tampering with the Gravity Room. _Again._ Delaying his ascension to the Legend. _Again._

That stupid fucking blue haired _whore._

Bulma was able to crawl under his skin like no other. Perhaps with the exception of Frieza, but even then Vegeta had tolerated most of the shit that came flying his way with the knowledge that he would one day overthrow the bastard and then _he'd_ be the one laughing. Nappa and Raditz were able to irritate him, sure, but they couldn't rile him up the same way she could. Frieza's peons were easily enough dispatched if any of them happened to get a little too cocky and forget their place, and when people in general very rarely went out of their way to aggravate someone who could fell entire planets with the tip of his finger. But Bulma seemed to relish in tormenting him. In making him squirm and boil. She didn't seem to fear his anger, instead enjoying the flare of his temper, as if getting on his bad side was a good thing.

He'd assumed that she'd be more tolerable now that she'd tossed aside that worthless excuse for a warrior she'd paired herself off with. If anything, she'd gotten worse. It had only gone downhill since the kissing incident, and he was able to tolerate her company less and less. She was either in a foul mood, sulking aimlessly around the building – often in his way – and the once witty back-and-forth between them was no longer enjoyable, but insufferable. Or, she'd dial up her vulgarity to the max, making him frustrated and uncomfortable in a way he had no patience to deal with.

Another drone swooped by, beginning to glow as it powered up it's attack. Vegeta's fist connected with the it, using more force than usual, and he instantly regretted it. It shattered under impact, showering him in scraps of metal and glass. He could feel dozens of little shards splitting the skin across his chest and upper-arms, but it was his fist that suffered the most damage. The pain ripped through him like a tidal wave, working its way up his arm and across his nervous system.

" _FUCK"_

He dared to look down at his hand to inspect the damage, cringing when he he saw large chunks of the drone sticking out of it. Some shards hard sliced flesh all the way to the bone, flaps of skin and flesh hanging sickeningly away from where it _should_ be. It definitely wasn't the worst injury he'd ever sustained, not by far, but it did _hurt._

More than anything had hurt him in a while.

He grit his teeth, clutching his fist to his heart, the blood staining his chest and puddling on the floor with a rapid _drip, drip, drip._ It would definitely need a couple of days to heal, ruling out any intensive training for the time being. Pushing the goal of Legendary even further out of his reach. He could already hear the smug 'I told you so' that he knew would be coming.

"Kami, what happened to you?"

Vegeta was perched on the edge of the couch, clumsily trying to the clean his hands and wrap them in some sort of bandage. He had several small, thin gashes across his chest and upper arms too, but his hands seemed to be in the worst shape, bleeding profusely and somewhat misshapen. Bulma had followed the trail of blood from the kitchen door, but she hadn't expected him to look _this_ bad. He was pale, his usually bronzed skin an unhealthy ashy colour, and his eyes looked sunken and bruised. Her earlier anger towards him instantly melted away, replaced by a concern that made her chest throb uncomfortably. His jaw tightened when she took a seat next to him, but he stopped in his attempts at patching himself up and held out his hands for her to inspect. They were a mess, large shards of glass and metal embedded in the flesh, and when her gaze roamed over the rest of his body, Bulma could see smaller splinters littered throughout his torso. She sighed, realising that he'd been trying to patch himself up without even removing the offending foreign objects, losing an alarming amount of blood in the process.

"One of the drones... exploded," Vegeta said finally, avoiding her gaze and staring at the crimson puddle forming in the floor between the couch and the coffee table.

"Uhuh. By itself?" Bulma asked, reaching into the bloodied first aid kit, taking out a pair of tweezers, various dressings, saline and stitches. She took his offered hand wordlessly, setting to work on clearing him up. Vegeta's skin was unusually cold, and the image of him broken and near death from the Gravity Room explosion flickered involuntarily into her mind, making her flinch. Yet again something of her creation had caused him excessive pain, and she felt guilty for ever agreeing to help him.

"No... I hit it."

"You're an idiot."

"No-one asked you to help me, you know," Vegeta groused. But his words lacked their usual venomous edge, and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Bulma tried not to let the fresh wave of panic overtake her senses. She needed to be sensible. Let the rational, scientific side of her take control. She could freak out later, in the privacy of her own room.

"True. But no-one's asked me to stop."

"Tch."

The sat in silence for a moment, Bulma trying to disguise the tremble of her hands as she patched him up. Occasionally she'd steal a glance up at his face, alarmed at how tired and unwell he looked, angry that he had put himself in this position. That he had put _her_ in this position. _Again._

"Why do you push your body like this?" Bulma asked, tweezing out a shard of metal from between his knuckles and dropping it into an empty coffee cup. She picked up his hand, inspected the wound and tutted. It was deep, almost to the bone. It would still only take a couple of days to heal, but it had to hurt.

"To get stronger."

Bulma gently lay his hand down on her lap, soaked a cotton ball in saline and set to work cleaning the wound. He flinched at the touch. ."Well yeah, no shit. But do you have to almost kill yourself every other week? It's like you weren't content with just surviving the Gravity Room explosion. You have to try and out-do yourself and find more creative ways to attempt suicide."

"I want to beat Kakarot," Vegeta said simply. He pulled himself up a bit more, straightening himself out. To Bulma's relief, the colour was already returning to his face, and she couldn't help but take a second to marvel at the healing abilities of aliens. "Didn't your little bald friend tell you that Saiyans grow stronger every time they nearly die? I'm being pragmatic."

Bulma sighed, "And what if you actually die? I can't wish you back with the Earth's Dragon Balls again. You've already died once before, remember?"

"Oh yes, I remember." Vegeta spat out through gritted teeth. "If I die it's none of your concern. You said as much yourself."

"Of course it's my concern. Can you think of the media frenzy? 'Body of alien prince found on Capsule Corp. grounds, killed by the latest inventions of the ever fantastic, incredibly beautiful Bulma Briefs.' There'll be paparazzi _everywhere_ , and probably a dumb petition saying we should shut down and it's all my fault. That I killed the handsome would-be hero and doomed the world. Give it a few years and there will even be a crappy made-for-TV movie about us, and they'll paint you as some poor, misunderstood hero, and me as some negligent, big business shrew."

Vegeta stared blankly at her, not fully understanding half of what she had said, nor really caring. He made a non-committal noise and turned his face away.

"I'm kidding," Bulma said, an edge of concern to her voice. She began to suture the smaller gashes on his hands, turning them occasionally this way or that to get a better angle. "I don't want you to die because you're one of us now. I've had enough of my friends die on me in the past, I don't want to add you to the list."

"As you've so thoughtfully pointed out, I've already died," Vegeta muttered. "And we're not friends."

"Oh."

The words stung, and Bulma couldn't help but feel a little sad that he continued to push her away. She was so sure she'd urged something resembling a friendly familiarity out of him following her breakup with Yamcha. As abrasive as he was, she liked having him around. It made her feel useful, testing the boundaries of her scientific abilities. It eased the loneliness that came with the absence of her friends. She was lost between worlds, and so was Vegeta. Though his loss was a lot more literal. She had hoped that they could share a sort of comradery.

Sensing the shift in mood, Vegeta huffed, his shoulders tensing and jaw popping. "You humans always take everything so personally. I don't have _any f_ riends. I never have."

It made Bulma feel a little better. Just a little. "What about that big guy who came with you to Earth?"

"Who, Nappa?" Vegeta snorted.

"Sure, Nappa, whatever."

"He had to look after me. I was a child when Planet Vegeta was destroyed, and the only living heir to the Saiyan royal family. He was duty bound."

"Okay sunshine, so what about Goku's brother?"

Vegeta shrugged. "Raditz was an imbecile who clung to Nappa and I for survival. Though, if given the choice now, I'd choose him over Kakarot."

Bulma's brows knitted together. It just seemed incredibly ...sad. It felt as though he was attempting to brag, like any sort of emotional attachment was a weakness to be tossed aside immediately, but he just came across as someone who was painfully lonely attempting to pass it off as a choice, rather than something beyond his control. She looked at him, but he refused to hold her gaze. She wanted to reach out and cup his face, forcing him to look at her, but she restrained herself. Her hands were thick with his rapidly congealing blood, and even if it wasn't she knew there's no way he'd allow her to do so. It was hard to believe he was a mass murderer when he sat there like that, looking dishevelled and broken.

"Aren't you going to say it?" Vegeta huffed, his cheeks a faint pink.

Bulma's brows knitted together in confusion. She went back to stitching he wounds, thankful she had a strong stomach. "Say what?"

"'I told you so.'"

Bulma stopped, staring at him open mouthed with a look of undisguised shock on her face. "No, of course not."

"Tch. Not like you to pass up an opportunity to be an insufferably smug bitch."

Bulma winced. "Yeah, well gloating isn't as fun when you're seriously hurt. The worry kinda wins out."

"Tch."

They didn't say another word as she finished the stitches. Nor did they speak as she bandaged his fists. When she was done she packed away the first aid kit and cleaned up the bloody coffee table and floor as best she could. He watched her through half-lidded eyes, breathing noisily through his nose as she went about her business. When she was done, and the living room looked less like a crime scene, and Vegeta less like a murder victim, she rose to her feet and made to abandon the living room in favour of going to bed. Before she left Bulma glanced back over her shoulder. Vegeta was reclining on the sofa now, his head thrown back, but his eyes were fixed firmly on her. He looked tired, and surprisingly young. It made Bulma's heart spasm uncomfortably in her chest.

"Hey, Vegeta?" She asked softly.

"What now, woman?"

"Just... be careful, okay?"

Vegeta narrowed his eyes, his lips parted ever so slightly as if he were about to speak. Bulma braced herself for a scathing remark or insult, but to her surprise it never came. Instead he closed his mouth again, nodded his head sharply just the once, and turned his face away.

"Woman?" She was halfway out of the door again when he called for her, his voice low.

"Yeah?"

"...I was wrong when I said that I understood why your lover cheated on you. I don't understand at all."

Bulma sucked in a sharp way, shock giving way to a sense of giddy understanding. Vegeta never apologised, but this was as close as he had ever been to saying sorry. The corners of her lips turned up.

"Thanks, Vegeta. Goodnight."

"Hn."

 **A/N Thank you for all of your lovely reviews, I treasure them all. Currently I update more regularly to Ao3 (username: Mynsii), including NSFW content that I need to omit to comply with guidelines, a series of one shots, and a vegebul AU 'City of Stars' which won second place in TPaTH 2017 Awards 'Best of the Undiscovered' category. Although I promise to make an effort to try harder with updating here on .**

 **Thank you all again for your lovely comments, and I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far**

 **-Mynsii**


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